


Shootout at Shorty's

by Cards_Slash



Series: Second Verse [7]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Enemies to Lovers, Gun Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23186866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: Doc's day started out bad enough but then he was "rescued" by some well-meaning revenants, got pawed at by a man who couldn't take a hint and ended up in an honest to God shoot out in the bar.
Relationships: Doc Holliday/Bobo Del Rey | Robert Svane
Series: Second Verse [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632727
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Shootout at Shorty's

“Whatever it is,” Wynonna had said outside the police station, “whatever you don’t want to tell them,” and there were more things that weren’t his place to go off telling then there were things he could share, “you can tell me.”

In that moment, they had been as good as strangers. They were just people who had chanced to meet in the cold, standing six feet apart with a flurry of snowflakes between them. Doc would have been a liar if he said he didn’t _want_ to tell her all the things he knew. None of them are what she thought he was keeping secret and every one of them would damage a dead man’s reputation. There were some crimes that didn’t need to be passed on and there were some secrets that just weren’t yours to tell. “Darling, I really can’t.”

Wynonna was _trying_. She was trying so hard it started showing on her face. Her hands spasmed at her sides, opening and then clenching shut again. “You have to give me something, Doc.”

“He’ll meet you, like I said. You can ask him whatever you’ve got to ask.”

But Wynonna didn’t want to meet Bobo and Doc couldn’t even blame her. It was, however, the only way she could get the answers that she was looking for. 

“You want a ride?” she asked.

He had a cigarillo in his hand that he’d been dying to smoke since he’d walked into the sheriff’s office hours ago. An afternoon full of Dolls’ dour face and Waverly’s half-interested half-glares hadn’t improved his mood. The very last thing Doc wanted was to be caught inside a small space with a woman that still hadn’t decided if she was going to trust him or not. You couldn’t rush things like that, you just had to let them happen at their own pace. So he smiled at her when he said, “no, I believe I’ll walk.”

Her frown was all worry, but she didn’t ask him twice. 

Doc’s life had started to take on the quality of a small box. He’d been rotated from homestead to sheriff’s office with the occasional loan-out to secondary locations like vehicles and borrowed houses. His legs were itching to stretch and there was enough light left in the day to take him wherever he needed to go. He took his time through the blurry little town, following the streets that ran the longest, around corners and past storefronts for the sake of it. 

A man didn’t always _require_ a destination in his mind to start a journey. Doc hadn’t had any idea of where he was going when he crawled out of the well but he’d arrived nonetheless. 

He found the road that led him out of town as the sky just started to get dim. The snow had settled like fresh powder over the slush of the days before. The cold was just sharp enough to keep a man alert. That sort of chill that ran up your back in the dark, when you couldn’t be sure you weren’t being watched. 

There was nothing behind him, no matter how many times he looked over his shoulders. But that cold snuck up the bottom of his coat, it ate through the layers of his clothes to lick up his spine. A quick pace did almost nothing to make you feel safe in that sort of cold, but there was always the idea that a set of reliable walls could separate you from any unseen stares. 

Doc was forcing his feet to stop hurrying, aiming for something like calm and finding nothing but a fluttery thrill in his chest he couldn’t quite calm. His pockets were full of the bare essentials, a couple of extra bullets for extra safety, a box of matches and the last of his smokes. What he did _not_ have was that stupid goddamn phone he couldn’t keep track of. 

A truck flew past him with a screaming horn, and the echoing sound of a voice shouting out the window, something stupid and _young_ like calling him an old-timer or an idiot for being in the road. Doc had been of the mind that the road was easier to walk on than the snow-covered fields. He watched the truck as it grew little in the distance; he stood still with his hands halfway to his guns, thinking how stupid it was, and how there was still time for the truck to turn around. He watched and he _watched_ until it was nothing but a speck in the distance.

The road was brilliantly quiet, filled up with blankness, absorbing all the sounds of the world except the scrape of his shoes on the road. The crunch of the snow when he walked too close to the edge. Somewhere, there had to be something _moving_ : a bird or a rabbit or a deer but right here on the road, it was only Doc and the sound of his own breathing.

No matter how quickly he walked, there was only the sounds of his body ringing in his ears. No matter how long he listened, there wasn’t even the echo of another living thing. No matter how he looked there was only the snow, and the dirt, and the road and _him_. 

The nothingness was broken with the sharp wailing shriek of a car horn. The snarling roar of it’s engine charging up the road behind him. Doc went _sideways_ , not forward, into the slushy white mess of snow. There was a slope of a ditch he jumped across to wait for whatever assholes thought it was good fun to scare a man. But that wailing beast of a car _slowed_ down, it crept along the last few feet as the doors cracked open. He could hear the laugh rolling out of it long before he saw that skinny skeleton of a man slither out of the car. He was as yellowed and stretched thin as he’d been when Doc shot him in the face, but he’d taken the _precaution_ of a great number of friends. 

“Well hello there,” Lars said.

Any man that didn’t learn from a bad experience was a goddamn fool. Doc shot him before he could take a step. His body flew back into the car and the man climbing out behind him didn’t do a damn thing about it but push him sideways. The car lurched when the driver climbed out. 

“Now now,” the driver shouted with the shotgun reliably aimed at Doc’s chest, “we don’t want to hurt you John Henry, but if you don’t come quietly I guess we’ll just have to.”

Doc shot him first, but there were _more_ of them. They were crawling out of that car like bugs, making a great mess of noise as they came, slobbering shouts of anger as he shot them one-after-another. It didn’t matter how many times he shot them, it seemed like there was another to take that one’s place.

Lars was creeping back to his feet before Doc finished shooting the last of the first set. His eyes were set so deep into his blood-slicked face they looked like giant black voids, and he crouched low to the ground as he darted forward. His knees and his knuckles dragged in the snow. 

Doc moved _back_ but the fresh fallen powder was slick across the packed snow. His boots were slush-damp and slippery, and Lars moved faster than anything made of all bones should manage. He had his hand around Doc’s leg before he could pull the knife. 

His elbows hit the ground first, with a jarring pop that made his hands loosen and clench again, but the guns fell before he could grab them. Lars was digging his claws into Doc’s body, punching sharp pains up his thighs, across his gut, into the spaces between his ribs. 

“Shouldn’t have fought back,” Lars was drooling on his face, “should have let us have what we wanted,” he dug his nails into Doc’s wrists before he could get the knife out of his belt, “there were only three of us then. Should have let us--”

Whatever other inspiring things Lars meant to say was deafened with the thunderous report of a shotgun fired at far too-close range. His head exploded like a sack of wet confetti as his body rolled to the side from the force of the blast. Doc didn’t have time to process the presence of a rescuer, he scrambled back on his heels and elbows, crawling his fingers through the snow to find the reliable warm grip of his guns. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the man with the shotgun shouted while he was looming over Doc. Behind his back there was a chorus of meaty sounds, metal on flesh and blood on snow. “You just better tell Bobo that we--”

Doc shot him. He might have been saying that was worth hearing, but just in case he wasn’t, he shot him right in the face.

\--

Bobo had been staring at the shiny silver surveillance device stuck to the back of the ugly ass boot asking for tips for the better part of ten minutes. Moving the operation into town, putting it so _close_ to that BBD asshole had been more or less like _asking_ to be put under surveillance but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t _disappointed_ all the same. 

And, as distracted as he’d been with Henry, there was no telling what sort of juicy details his gossipy brethren had been giving out. If he were on better terms with the team of crack detectives that were gluing ugly round silver buttons in conspicuous places, he might have asked them for a recording of the past few days. It would have been _useful_ to know what the boys were saying while he’d been out of touch. Maybe he’d put Cryderman on the task of subpoenaing the records. A politician was always good at coming up with bullshit reasons for things like that. 

The front doors kicked open with a yowl of shouting laid over a cacophony of grunts of effort with a light, airy melody of an ongoing struggle. Bobo had learned that looking too interested in that sort of thing just left you having to _deal_ with it. He waited for the follow up to the initial outburst, for the revenants closest to the door to start reacting. 

A table overturned, and a very drunken voice shouted, “son of a bitch!” like a man in need of a quick exit. He didn’t even have to look up to see how everyone was jumping out of their seat. Even the men at the bar reeled backward, splitting in either direction that separated _him_ from whatever was being dragged into his bar.

“A _thank you_ ,” sounded very much like Dowdy Dudley. “Is a thank you too much to ask?”

The response he got was _muffled_ but the voice itself was recognizable. Henry was wrapped up in rope that lashed his arms so they were trapped behind his back. His hat had gone missing and someone had taken the initiative to gag him with what looked like an unpleasantly dusty handkerchief. His hair was falling into his face so you couldn’t quite see his eyes but you could see the blossoming red on his cheeks and the way his mustache bounced as he cursed every man in the room.

“Wait!” David shouted. He had his hands up in submission but he was hiding behind Henry’s body as he did it. “Wait, boss, just _wait._ ”

Dowdy’s whole face was covered in blood and he had a bruise the size of a bullet in his forehead. He hadn’t walked into the bar like a man who was afraid for his life, but he shrank back now. “They were going to rape him!” he shouted, “and we saw it, and we took care of it but he…” He motioned at Henry’s whole body as if that explained everything.

“He wouldn’t stop shooting us,” David whimpered.

Henry was being pushed forward like a peace offering. The ropes had twisted in his shirt pulling it up over his stomach, and they’d stolen his holster so his jeans were lower than normal. All that struggling had made his skin rosy everywhere. There he was, shaking the hair out of his face, frowning as hard as a man could with a mouthful of something dirty. Henry had a _lot_ to say but what he did not intend to say was _sorry_. 

“That wasn’t very kind of you,” Bobo said.

The brilliant group of rescuing revenants slunk back another step. One or two of the less brave ones were trying to blend in with a crowd that was not going to be mistaken for involved in this.

Henry was just watching him. He’d gone still (at last), all except for how his eyes moved when Bobo walked around the bar. He didn’t even turn his head as Bobo went behind him, didn’t flinch when Bobo ran a hand across his shoulders. 

“It’s not nice to shoot the men that save you,” Bobo said.

Henry cocked up his eyebrow in some indication that as soon as his arms were free he was going to shoot them all again. Maybe he’d shoot them twice; not out of any particular meanness but a man had to be allowed to vent his anger on something. 

Dowdy inched forward to hold out Henry’s holster. They’d tucked his guns back into it but there were no bullets to give him any ideas about using them. The knife was still there, tucked securely into place, and Bobo pulled it free before he dropped the whole thing on the bar.

“Now,” he went around Henry’s back again, “on the one hand, you were told not to touch my whore.” He let the knife dip outward, so it was aimed at the whole cluster of them. “And you tied him up, and _gagged_ him.”

“He was shooting us,” David repeated, “he shot Dowdy three times.”

“He shot me in the balls!” came from the back of the crowd.

Henry made a snorting sound that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but _pride_. 

“That wasn’t very nice of him.” Bobo let the knife fall the opposite way. He was closer to Henry than he was to the revenants. He could feel the tense of his shoulders, feel all that energy quivering under his skin. Henry didn’t want to look at him, but he turned his head when he couldn’t take it another minute. “You should show them,” he said loud enough to be heard, “some _gratitude_.”

Henry was still frowning but he darted his eyes sideways, toward the bar and then back out toward the crowd leaning in to hear what the final punishment was going to be. Henry’s shoulders as his hands formed little circles like he was carrying cups. 

Bobo slid the knife under the dusty rag stretched across his cheek; Henry didn’t even breath as it shredded through the fabric. “I think you owe them a drink,” Bobo said. He stabbed the knife into the bar top, “ _Dowdy_ ,” made the man jump, “untie him.”

Henry was grimacing the taste of that handkerchief out of his mouth, but he managed to smirk at how _frightened_ Dowdy looked about the task he’d been given. 

Bobo went back around the bar, folded his hand over the top of the ugly cowboy cup and slapped it down so hard on the bar that button on the back just shattered. It must have screamed feedback into someone’s ear, but they deserved it for listening in.

\--

The most pressing of questions that Doc could not fully answer was whether or not every single revenant in the bar was attracted to him on the basis of his sex or the fact that he was currently acting as a servant to them. While a number of them had happily and lasciviously laid their eyes upon him with some degree of arousal, very few of them seemed as if that tingling in their little dicks amount to more than meanness.

Doc could serve a drink to a man that was licking his lips because he liked the thought of being waited on by the friend of the man that sent him to hell. He could even tolerate the ones that looked at him with pointed smiles, not because he was an associate of Wyatt’s but because of his association to Bobo. Those men were just looking for a little something to help them get through the long lonely days of their miserably unfulfilling lives. If they had to shore up their crumbling self-worth by smiling about Doc’s _obedience_ to his imagined _master_ then he was willing to let them for the moment.

He could even serve a drink to a man with a sincere smile and the sort of lingering look that indicated they were interested in excusing the two of you to a back room. Doc had been on both sides of those looks and he certainly was not the sort of man to go around telling anyone else who they ought to have found attractive. Uncomplicated, honest lust was almost a welcome change from the unpleasantness that had started sticking to his skin. 

What he could _not_ tolerate was the combination of the two. He found himself on his second round of passing out shots and stiff drinks, stuck at a table of rowdy and well-past-drunk men that were _guffawing_. That sort of laugh like a donkey that shook the table, the chairs, the men and the _walls_. The meaty one on the end, pushed back from the table by virtue of the fact that he was too wide to fit any other way, he had been _eyeballing_ Doc since he’d gotten dragged into the bar. He’d been licking liquor off his lips, following him around the room, making midnight memories by himself about all the things he’d do if he got a taste.

It was men like that, the one with _entitlement_ that got under your skin. As sure as skinny Lars by a roadside, this boulder of a man was sure he was _owed_ something. He’d brushed his hand along the length of Doc’s his first go around, smiling over the pretense of accepting a glass. 

This time, he was liquor bold and full of courage. His hand didn’t brush along Doc’s but settle on the back of his thigh with the intent to slide _up_. It was a very _smooth_ motion, perfectly crafted to be excused as an accident. Surely the man was just trying to keep his hands out of the way of the tray and he glasses and he just _happened_ to form his fingers around Doc’s legs. 

He must have been thinking by the time he got caught he would be done and there’d be nobody at all to know he’d done it. But a move like that, as well-done as it was, required an excess of _practice_. Doc had plenty of practice at breaking bottles. He was a goddamn master of the craft, he shattered a full one over the edge of the table and had the dripping, jagged edge of it pushed into the rolls at the man’s neck before his hand could even fully settle on Doc’s ass. 

The other drunk assholes at the table moved _backward_ , not closer. 

“Henry,” was his name in a purr, getting closer as the bar went quiet around them. Everyone was watching now how they’d been watching when he got dragged in like a disobedient dog. Bobo’s voice was what violence should have sounded like; controlled and modulated and carefully thought out. “That’s not very _gracious_ of you.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” the boulder said. 

The bottle at his throat hadn’t scared him nearly as much as the gentle way Bobo’s hands settled on his shoulders did. That was just _unacceptable_. Doc pulled the man’s meaty arm from where it had gone lax at his side, he smacked it down on the table between the puddles and peanut shells. The man jerked, and Bobo’s hands tightened as he purred a very pleased-sounded growl. His eyes were pinked-and-getting darker, as he smiled like the devil itself.

But it was _Doc_ , who had no need of a savior, that drove the jagged end of the bottle straight through the man’s fat hand. The glass broke as it went through and he lifted it to stab him again. The blood was like a fountain, and the man _screamed_. 

Bobo was shaking his head, smacking the flat of his palm against the man’s face without pity. “That’s enough gratitude, I think.”

Doc could have left the bottle where it was, sticking out of the man’s wrist, but he yanked it out again and threw it over his shoulder. They were at an awkward distance, caught between this story they were still trying to sell and how Doc was just about tired of being thought of as some man’s property. 

Those filthy things at the side of the road, belly-down and slithering in the snow hadn’t been coming after him because they had a hankering for his fine ass. They were after him because he was something they could _take_ from Bobo. He’d become a weapon and a bargaining chip. Even now, pretending to do penance by passing out drinks, he was still bowing to the same idea.

A man could only take so much. He grabbed Bobo by his ugly fur coat and pulled him forward. It had every possibility of ending ugly, because power was _necessary_ when you were stuck in a place like Bobo was. Power meant different things to different men, but nothing made you think you were the strongest man in the world than keeping down someone _weaker_ than you. 

Doc was _not_ weaker.

He wasn’t less vicious.

He wasn’t any less capable of violence.

And he wrapped his arm around Bobo’s shoulders to pull him down and kissed him like a slap across the ass. His reign as the whore was going to _end_. Whatever happened next was up to the man shocked into stillness against his chest.

\--

It seemed _inevitable_ now. Henry was always going to reach the limit of his ability to accept the situation they’d found themselves in. He’d been so _giving_ and so _accepting_ ; doing everything from clenching his jaw and listening to the rumors to being safely shuttled back to the homestead. 

Maybe it had been Bobo that had gotten comfortable in that idea, because Henry was smiling in a hot bath, looking _unbothered_ while he made offers that were too delicious to turn down. Because Henry had been _letting_ him maintain a charade of power. Because he’d gotten caught up in the mirage the very same way his men had.

John Henry Holliday was a real son of a bitch. He was the sort of man that you didn’t cross and live to tell about. The one that had drinks with his best friend in the afternoon and drowned a man just after dark. He’d probably stood at Wyatt’s side outside the courthouse, looking confused and worried right along with him, saying: _well now where could that barber possibly be_? 

By the time Bobo had worked out his options, the kiss had gone on too long to go back. There was no restoring a sense of ownership, no returning them to a previous belief. Henry was pushing his tongue into Bobo’s mouth, sliding his hand over the back of his head to thread through his hair. Every muscle in his body was standing out as his grip got _tighter_. 

Bobo growled into the touch, wrapped his hands around Henry’s hips and pulled him the last half-step to press them together from mouths to dicks. He wasn’t too worried about the impression they were making, but all the same he could hear the shuffle of feet and the scrape of chairs. The front door opened-and-closed and opened in the sound of an ongoing retreat. 

Henry moved back first, smiling like he meant it for the first time since he’d been pulled into the bar. He ran his tongue over his lips, looking over Bobo’s head at the stairs behind him. 

Half the bar was empty and the other half was caught between sticking around to finish up their drinks and old fashion dumb shock. Hui was behind the bar with a fresh-slapped look on his face and a beer glass just hanging at the end of his hand. Bobo growled, and slipped one of his fingers through Henry’s belt loop. “Get out,” he said to anyone that had any intention of staying and, “lock up _,_ ” to Hui.

Henry didn’t get pulled because he was too close behind Bobo to need to be. They weren’t an elegant display of moving parts going up the stairs, but it didn’t seem to matter to the last of the revenants fleeing the bar. By the time they made it to the top of the stairs, neither one of them was very worried about what anyone was going to see. 

Henry was walking backward, holding onto Bobo’s face to kiss him as he went. Bobo was following along, trying his best to pay attention to kissing when he was more _concerned_ with how Henry couldn’t stop dressing in layers. It was starting to feel like every shirt he got loose there was another beneath it.

They hit a door frame in their attempt to get through it. Henry stopped trying to kiss him so he could yank at Bobo’s coat. It got caught on his arms where the lining went tight, and that made Henry snarl in annoyance. A few quick tugs and a half-whispered curse did the job.

Bobo pulled his undershirt over his head and Henry got his belt loose and slithered free of his pants. His fingers skated across Henry’s beautiful bare skin, around his waist to grip at his ass and pull him up and off his feet. He might have expected some protest, but Henry’s legs wrapped around him without an ounce of shame. They squeezed at his sides as the man wrapped his arms over Bobo’s shoulders and kissed him all tongue-teeth-and warm breath. 

The wall rattled when Henry’s back hit it. It didn’t matter one damn bit to either one of them, Bobo’s hands were digging into Henry’s thigh as he rocked his hips to grind his dick against his body. Henry was moving in counterpoint, shifting in Bobo’s grip, pushing against his belly with growing insistence. 

They were wearing too many goddamn clothes. 

Henry was working his shirt up, tugging harder when it got caught in the grip of his own legs. Even working together, they didn’t make it farther than getting it stuck under Bobo’s arms. Henry laughed first, leaning against the wall he was pushed against. “Perhaps we should…”

They stripped themselves naked. Shirts, shoes, pants until they were nothing but skin. Henry frowned at the piss-poor excuse for a bed, nothing but a bare mattress and the plan to acquire some manner of bedding later. The fact that he was _spoiled_ didn’t seem to stop him from crawling onto the bed, he was sitting on his knees in the middle, watching Bobo fish the lube out of the bedside drawer.

That was a fresh change from how Henry usually found himself rolled onto his back at this point. In fact, the way he was sitting there waiting seemed to _imply_ something about his expectations, he said, “ _lay down_ ,” like he was annoyed to be kept waiting.

\--

Perhaps there was a bit of meanness in not explicitly spelling out his intentions, but Bobo still stretched out on the bed like he was willing to see where this command was going to take him. Whatever he was expecting, it did not appear to be Doc putting a leg across his to sit back against his thighs. That didn’t even seem to fully unwind the tightening coil of confusion making him stiff in unpleasant ways. 

(Doc was going to drive to wherever the hell they buried Wyatt and piss on his fucking grave. He was certain that the man would understand that it had to be done. He always understood why he got punched in the face. He was an asshole, but he was honest about it.)

Doc ran his hand up Bobo’s body from the taut muscle at his chest to his clenching jaw and turned his face back to look at him. He pressed a kiss against his lips and didn’t linger. Bobo’s hands were still resting on the bed, like he was going to be very still and accept whatever happened next. That was an ugly sight to see when they’d started off so nice. 

“Have I said,” Doc whispered against his cheek as he ducked his head down to kiss his jaw. He moved his hand so it was pressed against the bed, so nothing was holding Bobo in place. “How much I enjoy,” he kissed the throbbing pulse in Bobo’s neck. “How _thoroughly_ you fuck?” He scraped his teeth across the ridge of his collarbone. 

Bobo made a sound like a wheeze, like he’d been suffocating himself all the along. “Not with words,” he said, just to test it out.

Doc was kissing his way down, taking his time about figuring out what Bobo was tolerating and what he liked. The man didn’t act like he even knew himself, at least not when it came to any amount of skin found above his belly button. He hissed at Doc’s teeth scraping across his nipple, and groaned when he pressed the flat of his tongue across it after. “An unforgivable oversight on my part.” 

“I think you get the point across,” Bobo said. He didn’t pull Doc up but wiggle lower between his thighs just to get them kissing again. It wasn’t as frantic, and it wasn’t as rushed. Bobo kissed him like he was trying to distract them both. Like a man might not notice the slippery wet fingers slicking across the inside of his thigh. Bobo was licking at his tongue with the tips of his fingers teasing at what came next. 

They hadn’t been that _considerate_ or patient since they were still pretending they hated one another. Doc’s belly was shivering from the effort of holding himself up, and Bobo was pulling him down with a hand in his hair. He pushed his hands against Bobo’s chest, just short of laying across him like a blanket. They were doing their best to hang onto a kiss neither of them had the breath to manage. 

No, Doc was caught between the tenderness of that kiss, the way Bobo’s hand was gripping his hair without pulling and the slow drag of fingers rocking back and forth without making any attempt to press in. He tipped his hips like an invitation, keeping his legs loose and open. They hadn’t climbed the stairs like a set of men that were going to get caught up on foreplay. 

But here they were, with Bobo’s mouth breathing into his skin and his fingers just barely pushing in. Doc had his face pushed against Bobo’s face and his back arched like a goddamn rainbow. He couldn’t _possibly_ make it any easier, and Bobo wasn’t just taking his time. He was _savoring_ how Doc clenched around his fingers; how that moan of a noise rolled against his skin.

Bobo wasn’t going to be rushed, it didn’t matter how _ready_ Doc was. It didn’t matter how he rolled his hips, how he pressed Bobo’s fingers deeper. No, Bobo had been memorizing things about his body that he couldn’t swear he knew so well. His fingertips were working toward a goal, curved into him with just the right _pressure_ that everything felt like it was setting itself on fire. It was a delicious _unbearable_ sensation of being kept right at the edge of an orgasm he’d worked too hard to be denied. And it didn’t matter how he twisted his hips, it didn’t get better and it didn’t get worse. It just built there, spreading out from the stretch of his body around Bobo’s fingers to his shivering legs to his quivering belly.

To his wide open mouth. It curled up in his tongue, making sounds that couldn’t be muffled no matter how hard he pressed his mouth to Bobo’s skin. 

Doc reached to grab his dripping cock, and Bobo said, “you can take it,” like he could see the future. Like he’d he’d never had such faith in anyone. Like he wanted to _watch_ and he’d apply whatever force was necessary. 

“Fuck,” Doc groaned as he leaned back. He pushed his hair away from his face, dragging the strings of it stuck in his sweat like they’d stay where he put them. It wasn’t any different sitting up, but at least Bobo got to _watch_ like he wanted. Maybe it would have been better if he was getting fucked by the thickness of those fingers, but it was as sweet and slow as lovemaking, and Doc was going to die before they reached the end of this experiment. 

Bobo’s free hand was running down his belly, tracing where the muscles were jumping in effort, doing nothing at all to touch his dick. They were both staring at it, at the growing puddle of his cum smearing across Bobo’s flushed skin, at the pulsing throb, at the deepening red of it. He could have gotten off with a breeze. He could have cum just from a misplaced touch. He could have given up on giving this bastard what he wanted and just fucked his cock through the slippery mess he’d already made. 

He didn’t have to stay still and that was the _hell_ of it. That was what it just beyond unbearable, into the sort of space where it felt so good it started to hurt so by the time it finally, _finally_ tipped over the edge, he was so ready he couldn’t stand it. 

“Oh fuck,” Bobo whispered like it had been _his_ orgasm ricocheting through _his_ body like an earthquake. Like he was looking for something solid and steady to hang onto, like he was trying to re-evaluate his own damn body, and figure out how he’d cum that hard with nothing but fingers up his ass. 

Doc couldn’t even be sure he was feeling his own fingers and toes before he was rolled onto his back. Bobo didn’t waste time trying to kiss him because he didn’t possess enough brain function to control his own mouth. No, Bobo was a smart man to leave his mouth alone to suck at those old-old bruises at the base of his throat. He was laying Doc out flat on his back because that’s how he liked him best. “I didn’t know I could do that,” he mumbled.

“I bet you can do it again,” Bobo said. He must have really believed it too because his arms were shrugging Doc’s legs over his shoulders. He paused just there, “ _Henry_ ,” like you could just use a man’s name like an all-purpose question. 

But Doc was nodding his head, “you do that to me twice, you can call me whatever the hell you want.”

\--

It was hard to know what came first, the sound of the glass shattering or the crowing laughter of the men in the street below. The whistle of bullets and the splintering thuds of their impacts against the outside of the wall exploded at the same moment. Henry had been sleeping (how he always was in the aftermath) so the sound made him jerk _up_ right. 

Bobo grabbed him by the foot to drag him flat again as the next hail of bullets came flying through the windows. They sank into the walls with sharp echoes, throwing sawdust and splinters into the air. Henry wriggled sideways off the edge of the mattress and landed on his knees behind it.

“Who is shooting at us!”

“Let me go look out the window,” Bobo growled back. 

The trouble with Henry’s method of passing out was that he was always naked when he woke up. That hadn’t been such a bad idea when they were squatting in the Gardner’s house but a gunfight wasn’t the place to have your dick out. “Why are you wearing clothes?” Henry demanded. His hair was filled up with sawdust as he hunched his shoulders, flinching at the volley of bullets. “Don’t you control metal?” 

That was significantly easier when he was looking at the thing he was trying to manipulate. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t casting such a wide net and hoping for the best. Still he stretched out along the floor with his eyes closed, concentrating on finding anything that felt solid enough to _pull_ on. The wall was vibrating under the strain of the gunfire hitting it, and that made it harder to distinguish all those hot metal slugs from the guns spitting them out. 

“Where are my fucking pants,” Henry was hissing behind him. 

Bobo _pulled_ when he found something that seemed likely to be the guns. He could hear their attackers through the windows, shouting in fresh alarm, arguing like idiots. 

“You _said_ he couldn’t do that!”

“Well he acts like he can’t!”

“Fuck,” Henry hissed behind him. He was half sitting up behind the bed, both of his hands wrapped around his left leg with a grimace of something awful on his face. He had shimmied his ass into pants but he hadn’t gotten the ones that belonged to him. “Where’re my guns?” he shook his head to get the hair out of his face, “and my hat?”

They were downstairs, behind the bar folded up in his coat, where Hui had tucked them when Henry started serving drinks. Bobo climbed back to his feet, to lean against the broken edge of the window frame and try to see which idiots had taken it upon themselves to attack him. It had seemed like a good idea without the hail of bullets, but he must have missed one of the guns because he only narrowly missed getting shot in the face. “Give me your phone,” Bobo said.

“I do not have it at present,” Henry said and he sounded _angry_ to have that pointed out. 

Hui must have locked the doors because the sound of them being pounded on was echoing up the stairs. Bobo growled, and left the window as a lost cause. “Your guns are behind the bar, they took your bullets.” 

Henry pulled himself up to his feet in the doorway, letting out a curse under his breath as he stumbled after him. “I need my coat.” 

“My shirt looks great on you,” Bobo promised. 

If they were still banging on the doors they hadn’t made it through them yet. Any other night the bar would have been half-full of half-drunk revenants with no better place to go. He hadn’t seen the bar empty since he walked into it for the first time as the owner. 

Henry was following him down the stairs, wincing every time he put weight on his leg. He got to the bottom first (if only because he seemed to fall down those last two steps). That put him right in the way of Chester when he came through the back way with a baseball bat slung across his shoulder. There wasn’t a single ounce of metal on Chester’s body to work with, so Bobo couldn’t do a damn thing. Henry saw him in time to duck and ended up landing on the ground as the bat went flying over his head.

A cluster of idiots made it through the front door and they brought an assortment of guns with them. Not all of them were stupid enough to shoot, but the three that were sent a volley of helpful weapons speeding into the air. Bobo followed the path of the bullets, diverting two to take care of Chester and curving one into the wall. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he snarled at them. 

Henry rolled onto his hands and knees to scramble behind the bar in a real hurry. 

“We don’t listen to you no more,” Lars shouted at him. He was covered in his own blood, squeezing into between bigger men to sneer at him like it was going to hurt Bobo’s feelings. “You should have just given us the whore; he doesn’t belong to you!”

“Well now,” Henry said as he stood up from behind the bar, “that is the first thing we have agreed upon.” And he shot Lars with a petty sort of smile on his face. He didn’t stay standing when he was outnumbered and low on ammunition, but the bar he ducked behind wasn’t going to withstand a constant assault either. 

There were simply too many bullets flying at once for Bobo to catch them all. The idiots in front of them weren’t as worrying as the ones that might have been coming in the back. He didn’t have enough time to figure out the _best_ course of action, so he went with the quickest. He started pulling the guns out of their hands.

“Are you sleeping back there?” he shouted at Henry.

“Perhaps if your rabid followers had not stolen my ammunition!” He was back on his feet when the bullets stopped again.

Lars was already coming back to life by the time Henry shot the man to his right. The little bastard was alert enough to yelp in surprise when he was splattered in brown blood. Henry shot three of them before he ran out of bullets.

“Goddamn it,” he snapped at the guns as he dropped back behind the bar. 

Bobo growled, and the last idiot standing dropped his gun before it could be pulled out of his hands. He put his hands up in surrender, working his mouth open to make some excuse for why he’d joined the wrong side, so he never saw the knife that lodged in his skull to the side of his right eye. 

“I thought you were out of ammunition,” Bobo said. He hadn’t even gotten entirely off the steps yet, but he stepped down onto the cold bar floor as Henry leaned against the bar to scoff at him.

“That one only works once.”

Bobo pulled the bat out of Chester’s cooling hands. Across the room, Lars was squealing as he tried to wiggle out from under the revenant bodies collapsed across him. “I’ll just grab it for you. Sit down,” he motioned at the bar stools, “have a drink.”

Henry was already pouring himself a glass.

“Bobo!” Lars shouted before he even made it to him, “Bobo, I was just kidding. I was just being stupid.”

That went without saying. Bobo put his foot on top of the ample gut of the body pinning Lars to the ground. He let the bat drag across the ground for a moment while he looked down at him. “See,” he said, “Willard got what he deserved, Lars.” He turned his wrist to get a better grip on the bat, “in fact,” he said, “I think I was too easy on him.”

\--

Bobo came back to the bar covered in blood splatter. He’d left the bat but he’d brought the knife with him.

“How long does it take for a revenant to grow it’s head back?” He pushed the half-filled glass across the bar so Bobo could take it when he finished wiping his hands on the stretchy gray shirt Doc could not remember him wearing. (What a shame, as well, since it hugged his body almost perfectly.) 

“A normal revenant?” Bobo asked, he picked up the glass like a toast, “maybe an hour. _Lars_? Twenty minutes.” He hadn’t even gotten the drink to his mouth he started growling again. His hand tightened so suddenly it burst the glass in his fist into a shower of shard and wasted whiskey. “Where the _fuck_ is Chester?”

“This is Deputy Haught, put your hands up!” was _almost_ the perfect punctuation to the end of a very shitty incident. That little quiver in her voice that was bravery layered over fear made Bobo’s whole head drop so it was just hanging from his bunched up shoulders. His hand loosened around the fistful of glass he was still holding as he mumbled something that might have been _of course_. By the time she eased around the corner and over the not-quite-corpses of the momentarily dead, Bobo had managed to lift his head again. 

“Officer Haught,” Doc said. “I imagine this must seem like an _incriminating_ scene but I can assure you that it is not what you may think at first glance.”

“She needs to get out,” Bobo said without turning around. No he didn’t even spare a sideways glance at the gun trained on his back. “There’s ammunition in the stockroom. Sort this out.” 

Being betrayed did have an adverse effect on a man’s geniality. However, Doc would have prefered not to be left alone with a visibly shaken woman with an itchy trigger finger who did not have the benefit of knowing what sort of things went on in this town. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“I would like a fucking explanation,” Nicole said, she was trying to aim at them both and succeeding in aiming at neither of them. “Where is he going? _Where_ are you going? Stop or I’ll shoot you!”

Bobo waved his hand with a bitchy flick of his fingers and the gun flew out of Officer Haught’s hands and hit the bar. It tumbled to the ground as she gasped in shock and Bobo continued on his way to the basement to retrieve ammunition. “They’ll be back, _Henry_ ,” he shouted before he disappeared.

“Drink?” Doc repeated. The situation he found himself in, without proper ammunition, wearing another man’s pants, with a sharp-constant pain in his thigh and no boots to speak of, could only possibly be improved with a generous helping of liquor.

“I don’t want a drink,” Nicole snapped at him. “I want an _explanation_.” She ducked down to grab her gun so she could go back to pointing at him. 

“Those dead men by the door are not, in fact, deceased at all. They are reincarnated demons made out of the outlaws that Wyatt Earp killed with Peacemaker, the very same gun now in Wynonna Earp’s possession. She uses that gun to return them to hell.” He took a swallow of liquor in salute to her growing look of disbelief. “And I am Doc Holliday. _The_ Doc Holliday.”

“And your frat boyfriend?”

“Boy friend?” Doc repeated (although he did not know what any of those words meant in that order.) “I do not have a _boy_ friend. Why would I want to be friends with a _boy_? A grown man should not associate with juveniles.”

Nicole lifted the gun with a little bit more focus than she had held before. It wasn’t that she was more likely to shoot him, it was that she was more certain he was crazy. “Demons from hell?”

“Yes.”

As if, on cue, one of the dead men started to groan. He wasn’t alive enough to sit up, but his twitching arm made its way to pawing at the gaping hole in his head. His fingers dipped inside of it and Nicole gagged. “Oh that’s disgusting.”

“I seem to have misplaced my phone,” Doc said, “do you happen to have yours?” Of course, just because she had a phone did not mean it would be of any use to him. He was only able to operate the basic features of his own, and that did not include adding new numbers. The only person his phone was capable of contacting was Bobo. 

“There’s a phone on the bar,” Nicole said when she’d recovered from gagging. She gestured with the gun as if he could pick out which one of these things was meant to be a telephone or that once he found it, he would be able to operate it. 

Bobo came back through the door to the basement with a box full of bullets and even less patience. “Call Wynonna,” he said. He threw the box on the top of the bar and pulled the liquor bottle out of Doc’s grasp. “Frat boyfriend?” he repeated like it _meant_ something. 

“Wynonna’s not a member of law enforcement, I’m not just going to call…” She might even have continued on that line of thinking if not for how Lars, the headless wonder, lurched half-way to sitting with nothing but a growing bubble of face-bits sticking out of his smashed neck. “ _Wynonna_ ,” she said, “Wynonna with the demon killing gun. I don’t have Wynonna’s number but I have _Waverly_ ’s. I can call Waverly.”

“Is there rope in your basement?” Doc asked.

“Don’t be lazy, just shoot them,” Bobo answered. He was looking down at his own body, the very snug gray shirt he was wearing, the rolled hem of the navy blue-ish sweatpants. Whatever he found made his eyebrows flinch with annoyance. He was scoffing, “ _frat boyfriend_ ,” to himself again. 

“Waves!” Nicole sang into the phone, “yeah I know, it’s like _so_ late. I’m just wondering if Wynonna’s there. It’s kind of important.”

\--

It would have been _rude_ to say that Henry was useless. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be of assistance, it was that every time he tried walking anywhere he started breathing curses under his breath and limping. 

“Guard the front,” Bobo said. 

The redhead kept moving in a slow circle, making sure no matter where he was in the room, she was facing him. It was nice to be considered a threat but it was a waste of her time and energy to keep moving in that nervous circle. “I should call this in,” she said to nobody in particular. 

“Get behind the bar,” Bobo told her.

Henry had finished his long, slow, anguishing walk to a defensible spot near the front doors. He was even standing on both of his legs even if his balance was shot to shit from refusing to put full weight on one. 

Bobo had never been much of a gunslinger, but he’d sat through enough of Wyatt’s long, rambling, semi-drunken love sonnets about John Henry to know that there was some importance to have a steady stance to shoot from. (So Henry wasn’t _useless_ , but he wasn’t his best either.) 

Once Henry was set and the redhead and tiptoed her way behind the bar, he followed Chester’s blood drops out through the back. The door had been pried open with such force it had busted the hinges. There was no way to secure it shut again, and nothing in immediate grabbing distance that could be moved to provide some sort of barricade. Someone would have to watch the entrance and was about a dozen people too short to effectively cover every entrance to the goddamn building. 

“So, if you’re _the_ Doc Holliday, you’ve been in shootouts before, right?”

“Yes,” Henry drawled. It wasn’t an answer, it was how he called people stupid when he felt like being polite. 

They were all spared the follow-up to that question by the shatter of another window and the bouncing metallic roll of a projectile landing on the floor of the bar. Henry was closest to the front and he spun on his good leg, caught between horror and resignation at the sight the goddamn grenade rolling to a stop under a table. 

Bobo had not been _happy_ about the bullets. He wasn’t _pleased_ about the pile of idiot corpses. He might have been able to move _on_ as soon as Wynonna sent the miserable rats back to hell. But there was a fucking _grenade_. He caught it at the last second, sent it back how it came but it exploded in the window, shattering what remained of the glass and ripping half the wall along with it. 

The redhead screamed, and Henry yelped as the force of the blast knocked him over. 

“Shit!” was a mighty shout from _outside_. 

“Back up!” the cop behind the bar shouted, “we need back up!”

Henry was on his back, covered in soot and dust, one gun pointed at the hole in the wall and the other at the doors. “I almost feel bad about shooting the good revenants now.” But also, “where was Wynonna?”

“She said two shakes!”

“Of what?” Henry demanded. He twisted a little farther to the left to shoot one of the red-eyed bastards trying to sneak through the gaping hole in the wall. The force of the shot made his arm jerk in a way that did _not_ look pleasant at all. He took the time to look across the room at Bobo, “do you have some _moral_ objection to arming yourself?”

Bobo had an answer (and it was something very like ‘fuck you’) but he didn’t have the time to give it. He’d gotten distracted by grenades and forgot about the wide open invitation of a back door blowing in the breeze behind him. The sound of Henry mouthing off covered the muffled footsteps so he didn’t hear the man that shot him until the bullet went through his shoulder. “Fuck!” he shouted.

Chester, so well known for refusing to learn, went wide-eyed and white as a ghost when Bobo turned around to look at him. He was barely even holding the gun when Bobo knocked it out of his hand. He wasn’t even _happy_ about drawing blood, as busy as he was struggling to get free from Bobo’s hands. He couldn’t _talk_ with Bobo’s grip on his throat, and he couldn’t _move_ when he was having his head bashed into the doorframe. His skull cracked like a watermelon and he went _still_. 

Henry was shooting at something behind him and it was _shooting_ back. 

It was a rapid fire of noise, sharp report of gun barrels, the crunch of wood, the crystal crash of glass everywhere. Someone was just _shouting_ for the sake of it, and right there, cutting through the sound with silky smoothness was the unmistakable sound of Peacemaker.

“Sorry we’re late!” Wynonna was shouting over the roar of noise, “lost our invitation in the mail.”

\--

Doc had been in worse situations. Or at very least, he had been in situations that were just as bad but he had not been granted the benefit of near immortality. At that time, he had the very opposite: two lungs full of the thing that was going to kill him. 

“Not the time to be laying down, Doc.” Dolls was crouching as he came through the doorway, hunched up like trading the benefits of being a smaller target was worth compromising a good shot. It was a hell of a situation to be in, certainly not the place for smugness, but he still managed to grin at him regardless. 

“I do like to enjoy my shoot-outs in comfort,” Doc answered back. 

Wynonna was leaning against the thickest part of the doorframe, using the wood as cover as she shot at the intruders lurking just beyond sight. “What’d you do now, Doc?”

“Nothing.”

“They seem really _angry_ ,” was Waverly caught between the exterior doors and the interior ones. 

Doc was going to shoot the first one of them that made a whore joke. There were enough bullets in the air that he could pretend it hadn’t been his, and maybe he’d make sure that it wasn’t fatal but he was not in the _mood_. 

Bobo must have gotten tired of waiting for people to shoot in his direction because he snarled a growl that made that mark on his back glow like a raging fire, as he dug his hand into the box of bullets still sitting on the bar. He threw the whole handful of them into the air like confetti and they set off like machine gun fire. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Wynonna gasped.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dolls whispered. 

“What happened? I didn’t see it.” 

Everything went _quiet_ again. Bobo dropped his arm with a rolling purr that sounded like a threat a cat would make. He looked over at them, all fury and red eyes, and snarled _again_. Doc wasn’t even doing _anything_ but laying where he’d gotten caught by the door, and Wynonna was too far away to be anything approaching a threat. Gunfights had a way of doing that to a man; you got caught up in bloodlust and bravery and everything started to look like something you hated. 

Doc was still working on figuring out where exactly all of that snarling growl was being directed when Bobo stepped forward and slapped Dolls on the face. It was too _directed_ to be excused by stress, and the way he smiled when Dolls yelped was too _happy_ not to have been something he’d been daydreaming about. 

“Get up, Henry,” Bobo said as his eyes faded back to blue. 

“What the hell, man?” Wynonna shouted.

Dolls had been knocked off his feet, dazed right out of his smugness. He didn’t even look like he knew what had happened to him as he touched his reddening face. “So you were at the fight,” he mumbled mostly to himself.

“Nothing happens in this town I don’t know about.”

“This seems like a surprise,” Wynonna said. She stepped out from behind the wood pillar to aim the gun at the bullet-riddled not-corpses of the original intruders.

“Nicole!” Waverly shouted. She hopped over Dolls and skirted around Doc as he started to get back to his feet. She was carrying her favorite shotgun as she ducked behind the bar and threw her arm around Nicole. “Are you alright? Did you get shot?”

Nicole was shaking her head like an answer that Waverly wasn’t going to wait for because she just started kissing Nicole. 

That must have been the _second_ thing that Bobo didn’t know about because he looked so honestly shocked there was no faking it. He even half-turned to glance at Wynonna who was slack-jawed staring at her sister like she wasn’t halfway through shooting a revenant in the face. 

“Whoa!” she shouted, “when did this happen?”

Doc grabbed the nearest stool to balance himself so he could drag himself back to his feet. That required tucking his guns back into the holster which left him momentarily defenseless, but apparently his _frat boy friend_ could turn anything to a speeding bullet when he thought it made him look cool. 

“This is pathetic,” Bobo said without trying to help him.

“Did Doc get shot?” Waverly asked. She had disentangled her tongue from Officer Haught’s mouth but both of her arms were still wrapped around her. 

“Uh,” Wynonna said when she ran out of bodies to shoot, “I think he got dicked too hard.” She was close enough she wrapped a hand around his arm and helped haul him up so he could sit on the barstool that had been holding him up. Her hand slapped against his back, “we’ve all been there, buddy.”

“No,” Dolls said, “no we haven’t.”

“I haven’t,” Nicole whispered.

Bobo was snorting to himself. 

“I hate to interrupt was it sure to be a _great_ conversation,” Dolls said. He did not sound as if he was upset about anything he said. “We are sitting ducks in front of a giant hole in the bar. Does that concern anyone else?”

Wynonna’s arm slid across Doc’s shoulders. She was leaning in against his body, no doubt making a face of _unbearable_ smugness. He could feel her breath in his hair as she made a soft almost-laugh and whispered, “ _giant hole_.”

“If they were still out there they’d be shooting,” Bobo said. He also hooked his foot around the base of the barstool Doc was sitting on and pulled it away from Wynonna. 

Since Doc was only presently capable of being he butt of a series of childish, ridiculous jokes and a good excuse for shooting up a bar, he leaned forward to grab something worth drinking. A man should not be required to put up with such things while _sober_. 

“So what happened?” Wynonna asked, “how’d all this start?”

Bobo turned so he was leaning against the bar with one elbow, watching all of them stare at him like they were willing to listen to him talk. The wound in his shoulder wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it had oozed enough blood to make his chest look like a massacre. His hair was impersonating a rooster’s and just for a moment, he looked almost as if he was _not_ going to say something smartass. “Henry wanted a title upgrade.”

“So like he’s...what prima whorina now?”

“Aren’t you boyfriends?” Nicole whispered from in front of them. “I thought they were boyfriends.”

“You’re being attacked by revenants because Doc doesn’t want people calling him a whore anymore?” Dolls repeated. “I thought they _started_ so he’d be protected from getting attacked.”

Bobo wasn’t looking at any of them. He wasn’t even looking at Doc. He was looking _directly_ at Wynonna, watching how the smile of good humor was fading off her face. Watching how she hadn’t relaxed for a minute regardless of how light her voice had sounded. The whole fucking bar was full of bulletholes and they represented less of a threat than how Wynonna was staring back at Bobo now. 

“I heard you found my letter,” Bobo said, “I’d like it back.”

“Well, _dear Robert_ ,” Wynonna said. “Why don’t I take _Doc_ home with me and you can stop by for coffee tomorrow and if you tell me what I need to know, I’ll let you take both with you?”

“Wynonna,” Doc said.

“Not now,” she said. “This is between me and Bobo.”

A woman could say that when she didn’t know what kind of miracles were happening before her. The very fact that Bobo was standing still when his least favorite name had been used like an insult _was_ most definitely a miracle. He hadn’t even clenched his jaw. He hadn’t so much as rattled the metal around him. No, he’d only breathed through his nose like a bull. And now he said, “Henry can go where he wants. I’ll see you tomorrow for my letter.”

“That’s it?” Waverly asked, “what about…” She motioned at the hole in the wall.

“Don’t worry about that,” Bobo said. 

“What do I write in my police report?” Nicole asked. 

Waverly shrugged, “I’m sure you can...find something? Rival gangs? Home repairs!”

They were going split along the seams, each of them heading back to wherever they’d come from now that the danger was passed. Waverly and Officer Haught were already making some attempt to walk while refusing to let go of one another. Dolls didn’t need any incentive to excuse himself from any building where Doc was taking up space.

Wynonna hadn’t moved, but Bobo had all the earmarks of retreating in defeat. The scene was reminiscent of a roadside. _Don’t worry about it_ sounded an awful lot like _I’ll take care of the body_. There he was again, with Wynonna on one side and Bobo on the other, both of them trying not to look like they were the one asking him to stay with them. 

Doc leaned back on the barstool so he could see Wynonna more clearly, so he could see how she was shaking her head at him. He didn’t have to say a word because she already knew. Her lips were stretched in a smile that was anything but happy, and her voice was soft as a wish and a threat whispering, “you better be right about him, Doc.”

“Since you are providing the coffee, we will be sure to bring the doughnuts,” Doc said.

Wynonna just nodded her head as she stepped away from the bar. Dolls was waiting for her, looking at him with skeptic distaste but it wasn’t outright disgust and that was, at very least, a step forward. The pair of them left through the door and the only ones left in the bar was the body of Chester the idiot, Bobo and him.

Bobo was angry again. “I’m not carrying you to the truck.”


End file.
